Page 85 of Shattered In Darkness

“Let’s go,” he says.

I stumble down the stairs, feet numb, heart pounding wildly. He shoves me back into the basement, into the dark that’s colder than any snowdrift. He finally takes the rope off, then leaves again. The door slams and the lock clicks.

For a long moment, I just stand there, legs still shaking, cunt throbbing with need and humiliation. My skin burns with the memory of his mouth, his hands, the ache he left behind.

I crawl to the mattress, and curl up tight. The darkness presses in, silent and wide. My body aches for something. Release, comfort, anything. But Brody’s gone, and he took the last scraps of warmth with him.

I bite my lip and choke on the emptiness, the want, the humiliation. Alone, again. Alone with the ache he built in my bones, with nothing to do but shake and wait and hope the dark swallows what’s left.

And in the silence, there’s no escape. Just the drip of need, the gnaw of shame, and the echo of his voice. But, he must still have a heart, because I awake from sleep to see a fresh pair of clothes folded beside me.

That is enough to give me a tiny bit of hope.

26

LOLA

Nights here are relentless. They press up against these thin, splintered walls, and claw at the fogged glass. The moon hangs like a sick pale eye above the trees, watching me, judging. This cabin is not a home. Not tonight. Not ever. Just a cage in the middle of nowhere. The wind screams. Floorboards tremble with every gust. Shadows pile in corners.

I pace the short hallway, up and down, around the warped table. I can't sit still. It’s so fucking cold I can feel it under my skin. Every sound sets me off. Groans in the roof, branches knifing the siding, frost ticking its slow death over the window. Breath fogs in front of my face. My feet ache against the bare wood, numb already, but I move anyway.

Brody hasn’t come back. Three hours? Four? Maybe more. Time here is elastic, stretching and convulsing around pain. He left in the slush and dark, with something monstrous in his eyes. He told me nothing. Just stormed out, boots like gunshots on the porch.

The world outside is nothing but moonlight and snow and branches clawing at each other. I keep looking through the glass but all I see are skeletons and ghosts. Sometimes I think I see a shape moving in the treeline. Sometimes I pray it’s not him.

Then I pray it is.

He’s the only thing worse than being alone here.

Wind hits the cabin, and the windows shudder. It’s like something is trying to get in. Or maybe something wants to get out. Shadows slide over the floor, black bands that stretch and twist with the moon. Each time I pass the window, I catch my own face staring back. Eyes wide, blue, made for surrender. I want to look away but I can’t. I look haunted. Maybe I am.

I wrap my arms around myself. My sweater is too thin, useless against the hunger of this place. I walk. I freeze. I listen for footsteps that never come.

Thoughts spiral. Marcus. Marcus. Marcus. He would never let me out of his sight this long. He’d be watching. Waiting. Ready to pounce the second I breathe wrong. Maybe Brody’s with him. Maybe they’re the same, two monsters in different skins. My stomach knots. I want to puke.

Sudden silence. Even the wind has stopped. I stand in the dead air, holding my breath, my heart thumping harshly.

Then the front door explodes open, so hard it cracks against the wall. White-out blizzard rips through the entry, snow hurling across the floor, and Brody fills the frame. Too big, shoulders wedged in the glow, skull mask loose around his neck like a warning.

He looks at me. Not with eyes. With hunger. With rage. He moves in stutters. Sweat streaks down his face, plastering his hair to his forehead. He staggers but never loses balance, just pivots, scanning for enemies that aren’t there.

His smell hits first. Vodka, sweat, and something beneath. Not weed. Not cigarettes. Something that stings inside my nose, gets into my sinuses and burns. He slams the door behind him, so hard the window rattles in its frame, so hard the whole place seems to shudder with fear.

“Lola!” he screams, voice shredded, echoing off the walls. He barely sounds human.

It spikes something in my chest. Panic, old and familiar. The kind that makes me want to fold into nothing, hide under the bed, block my ears.

He kicks a chair; it flips into the cabinets, splinters flying. He shoves the table sideways into the wall; plates and glasses crash, one shattering, spraying the tile with glittering shards. His hands twitch, fists flexing and unfurling, nails biting his own palms. He doesn’t even blink. Just fixates on me, blue-grey steel gone bloodshot. He paces like a wolf, restless, untouchable, making little half-muttered growls under his breath.

I back up. Careful steps. My heels hit the far wall. The cold seeps in, up through the soles of my socks, gnawing at my bones. He lunges. I don’t even move. Fear pins me to the spot.

Brody catches my wrist in both hands, yanking hard. Pain jolts up my arm, the way Marcus used to do, just to show me what’s coming. There’s no warmth in his skin. Only pressure. He could break me if he wanted.

He drags me close, breath hot and rotten on my face. The drugs, the liquor, the sweat. The mask dangles against my chest, the hard plastic grinning with its empty sockets.

He yells at me, words I barely recognize. Words that melt into spit and curses and tangled questions. “Where were you? Who did you see? Who’s here?” Over and over, words melting together, accusations and demands. “You lying? You fucking lying to me, Lola? You make a call? Who—who’s out there, who’s hiding⁠—?”

I shake my head, stammer out a denial, but he isn’t listening. He sees only what the chemicals show him.